


Come Autumn's Scathe

by musamihi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Baby Draco, Death Eaters, Gen, Malfoy Manor, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 18:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3081863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musamihi/pseuds/musamihi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fall of 1981 is supposed to bring about the Dark Lord's final rise to power.  When it doesn't, there are a lot of people left to sink in Voldemort's wake.  Lucius is determined not to be one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Autumn's Scathe

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Lucius Big Bang 2010. The title is drawn from _The Autumn_ , by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Thanks so much to luvsev for thorough and thoughtful beta-reading!

**August 20, 1981.**

It had been a strange summer, full of bleak and drizzling days. The trees in the country were pale and drooped sadly, and those in London were already half bare. It was the end of August, and the perpetual soggy chill had driven winter into everyone before the autumn had even properly arrived. The wind had started blowing something _ghastly_ over the past few weeks, which Lucius knew for a sign of change – not that anyone needed the wind to see that something was afoot, with the _Prophet_ always crying murder, and the lists of the missing spilling from one to two to three full columns. The weather was a mere flourish on the page of history, one final touch before the author called everything complete.

Lucius leaned his creaking wooden chair back from the boardroom table, resisting the urge to put his feet up, dripping boots and all. It warmed him a little to watch the huddled crowds outside trudging up the street against the whip and howl of the wind – but not enough, not nearly enough to stop his shivering. _Some_ things never changed, and the Chair of the Board of Governors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was one of them. And the Chair knew that to light a fire in August would be damnably absurd. So the boardroom was dank and subdued, bled of all color in the slow-creeping light of yet another overcast afternoon.

The Chair was unaffected, as elderly men so often were, and sat at the head of the vast table droning through a resolution whose prologue had so far lasted fifteen minutes. His twisting, narrowing plait of a beard slipped into his tepid tea every time he gave the obligatory solemn nod upon the _Whereas_. Lucius tapped his toe soundlessly on the carpet to the cadence of that utterly dependable voice that made ponderous iambs of everything, _everything._ _Whereas: The Western Pixie blight of Hispaniola, having laid to waste the cane crop_ (spondee, rare creature!) _and vastly decreased shipments of: molasses, sugar, raw and processed ..._

"It is resolved," the Chair continued to a discreet letting out of breath from the other eleven men around the table. "Three Knuts shall be added per student per diem to pudding expenditures, to ensure the consistent supply and portioning of treacle." 

The secretary, seated to the left of the Chair and half-heartedly monitoring the quill that recorded the minutes in illegibly baroque script, roused himself with a cough and a spate of heavy blinking to say his piece. "Unanimous consent having been obtained to bring the resolution forward for a recorded voice vote, we proceed in order of seniority. Inquiries or objections as to order will be addressed as they arise by consultation with the records, to include minutes, resolutions, confirmations, nominations, by-laws and the charter." 

If there was one thing everyone present knew without need for consultation, it was the order of seniority. 

"Aye," said the Chair. 

"Nay," said Stebbins, his thick white brows knitting bitterly together. "The little blighters could do with a bit less for pudding – pudgy things, _shameful_ – I renew my motion to bring forward the Resolution on Re-instituting Mandatory Physical Excellence to be Periodically Assessed Through Dragon Evasion Exercises–" 

"No new motions will lie until the closing of the vote," the secretary interrupted. 

Hornby, seated to Lucius' right, made a note upon his pad of paper. The words scratched themselves across Lucius' stationery. _I wonder if anyone will second my Motion to Thin the Ranks of All You Miserable Codgers Through Dragon Evasion Exercises._

_If only I had a vote,_ Lucius wrote as four more _ayes_ rolled in. _You would certainly have it._

"Aye," Hornby said. 

The Chair's head shot up. "Mister Hornby," he croaked, breathless in his shock and outrage. "You are out of order." 

The secretary batted not an eye. "Mister Hornby is in order, and his vote has been recorded." 

"Well, I say he isn't," sputtered the Chair. "Mister Malfoy has the flo–" 

"Mr. Malfoy is not present." 

"Eh? What did you say? Am I blind? Is he not seated directly, _directly_ to the–" 

"That is Mister Lucius Malfoy," the secretary replied, a note of irritation rising into his voice. "Mister Abraxas Malfoy is ill and at home. His son has come in his place - to observe." 

The Chair folded his arms on the table and leaned forward to peer at Lucius over the tops of his spectacles. "Well," he muttered, "if you say so." He cleared his throat. "You will not be permitted a vote, Mister Malfoy, as you are not a member of the board." 

"Understood," Lucius said with a cheerful smile and a gracious nod. "I thank you." 

"It isn't anything personal, you see." 

"No, indeed." 

The excitement concluded, the vote continued. _It's a wonder,_ Lucius wrote, _that no one has strangled that old bat with his own beard._

_It would have to be a double murder._ Hornby had given up any pretense of paying attention. _Leave Stebbins in the Chair, and Hogwarts will be an Azkaban in a matter of hours._

The resolution passed, much to Stebbins' consternation. The secretary began to read it into the record. Lucius, free to muse on the very steep price of power, turned his gaze once again to the street below. How much nonsense a man had to wade through, how much silt to sift, for the opportunity to exert his influence in some meaningful way perhaps two or three times in a year–

There was a sharp prickling on his arm. In a moment it had risen to a terrible itch, and then a slow, persistent burn. He tightened his hand on the arm of his chair.   

_Oh, for goodness' sake._

  The tea had just appeared in the center of the table. He wouldn't be able to get away for another few minutes at least. The Mark would simply have to wait, which seemed only just, as it hadn't bothered with making an appointment. The Dark Lord's rudeness knew no bounds. 

 "There's an afternoon well spent," Hornby said, seizing on a plate of sandwiches. "Perhaps next month we can take on the curfew, surely responsible for _tens_ of Galleons worth of wasted oil."  

"I'll be sorry to miss it." Lucius watched Stebbins lean over to speak in the secretary's ear. "Yet another crossroads on the map of history that my father will have the privilege to traverse."

  "Not so fast. There's no getting rid of the dragon pox, you know. You may have to shoulder this heaviest of responsibilities sooner than you think."

Lucius gave him a faint smile before hiding his mouth behind his teacup. "He's well on the mend, I assure you. It has its ups and downs, but this has been a mild episode."  

"That _is_ a relief. Do you think he'll be accepting visitors within the week? I'm fairly bursting to tell him what I overheard at Burke's funeral. One doesn't trust that sort of thing to an owl."  

"I think you may safely come by on Thursday." Lucius rather enjoyed Hornby's visits. The man was good fun, not so seriously moth-eaten as the rest of them; he was also a long-time friend of his father. Lucius was sure those ought to be mutually exclusive, but such were the mysteries of human nature. 

Hornby drew out his ubiquitous little book, and scribbled in his appointment. The room had relaxed into something like casual conversation. Two of the middling governors were discussing uniform changes, a starry-eyed quest if ever there was one. The foot of the table was mulling over the latest dust-up among unhappy parents. Lucius listened, focusing carefully on the words to dull the increasing discomfort beneath his left sleeve. 

"I see no reason to act in any way," McLeod said, spilling crumbs down the front of his robes. "There have been no complaints except from those people whose lives seem to depend upon writing a nasty letter every day; his marks are perhaps a little high, but nothing out of the ordinary, and he _has_ spent years on the circuit – and as a champion, too." 

"I've seen him duel on multiple occasions." Smithson raised his nose in the air. "I was each and every time underwhelmed." 

"He's of _curious_ ancestry, I believe," Lucius said, carefully selecting a sandwich. McLeod cast him a sharp glare. "I wonder if it helps him at all, on the circuit? There are strange kinds of magic that the wandless creatures keep, and one expects it must survive several generations past the initial – mingling." 

 Smithson's voice was icy. "I assure you, _we_ will consider all the relevant information in making our decision." 

"Of course." Lucius smiled. "I'm only curious. It seems to me that some things that might be of assistance on a dueling ground might not be suited to instructing young children." 

"I should think not," Hornby murmured. 

There was a wooden tapping sound, and the tea trays disappeared. The Secretary made his obligatory clearing of the throat. "The Board will now enter executive session to review performance records, private correspondence, and any internal budgetary matters." 

"Excellent," the Chair creaked, folding his hands over the table as everyone went shuffling back to their seats. "Now that we are in executive–" 

"We are not in executive session," the secretary droned. 

"But _why_ –? Oh, yes – I see – very well – Mr. Malfoy, will you kindly go away?" 

Lucius was already standing, resting his hand on Hornby's shoulder by way of a good-bye. "Of course – good day to you," he said with a shallow bow, and left. The doors swung shut behind him and he rushed through the hall to the lobby, where the Floo was – thankfully – unoccupied. He grabbed a handful of powder, stepped up to the fireplace, and sent himself shooting off to the peeling old Georgian that was the Dark Lord's latest meeting house. The pain in his arm had not intensified, despite the fact that he had delayed his arrival by nearly ten minutes – which meant that the Dark Lord had been distracted by someone else, which was _always_ preferable. 

When he arrived, Lucius found the main hall empty but for a house-elf sweeping up the glittering footsteps of those who'd come before him. He brushed himself off, left his cloak with the elf, and assumed as casual a posture as he dared before making his way to the back of the house, where nine or ten of the Dark Lord's closer confidantes were mingling in an open parlor. Lord Voldemort himself was nowhere to be seen.  

"Lucius." Bellatrix stood alone beside the mantle. She might have had better luck in luring in a conversation partner if she hadn't been so set on glowering. "What pressing business is it that's kept you this time?"

  "Confidential, I'm afraid," he said, giving her a winning smile as her eyes narrowed. There was little he resented more than someone who willfully refused to show any manners, and Bellatrix had long proven herself incapable of being led into any kind of polite exchange. It left him on very soft ground. Smiles, compliments, suggestions and veiled language all glanced off of her like so many pebbles; the only tool that could affect her, and the only she ever used, was blunt and brutal honesty. Lucius had never bothered to master that hammer, finding it somewhat beneath him. It was easier to avoid Bellatrix than to learn how to dance around her clumsiness.   

She regarded him with cold eyes, her rigid face set in its scowl. "None of us ought to have secrets to keep from–" 

"But _you_ are not he, Bella, and I hardly think you'd enjoy hearing the details – he is here, isn't he?"

  "In the library." Rodolphus nodded toward a shut door across the hall. He sat in a high armchair facing the fire, and Lucius happily took the one beside him, leaving Bellatrix to her musings. "With Severus."  

Lucius stretched his legs out toward the fire. "Very good. What's the occasion, have you any idea?"

  Rodolphus snorted. Bellatrix raised her head, glaring at him. "The Dark Lord has found the child," she said. "The child the prophecy says is his undoing."  

"Splendid." It was easy to imagine the next steps. Lucius expected masks would feature; not his favorite way to spend an evening, but doing away with an infant could only take so long. "And who is it?"

  Rodolphus shrugged. "The Potters' boy. I don't know them, aside from their trouble-making. Potter was in school with Severus, as I recall – perhaps he's being asked to root them out."

  "He was, yes. Mr. Potter was a spectacular brat, too, for the year I knew him – perhaps it was two? I can't remember." Lucius had paid little enough attention to the younger students in his own House, never mind the Gryffindors, with whom he had rarely spoken unless it was scold them. He had very much enjoyed his tenure as Prefect. "As for his wife, I couldn't say–"

  "He married a Mudblood." Bellatrix's lips pulled away from her teeth in what Lucius had learned to recognize as a smile. "The Dark Lord will kill the child himself, but I mean to ask him for the parents. He knows I can make a fine example of them."  

Lucius suppressed a sniff. There was something wild and dark in her eyes that was desperately unfeminine, and it was hard to see why Rodolphus put up with her – but there he was, gazing at his wife as though she were a particularly charming piece of sculpture, never so enraptured with her as when she was being ridiculous. Lucius murmured his agreement, stood, and went to find better company.

  Igor was on the sofa, smoking something absolutely foul and listening to the elder Rosier boast about some conquest long past while Crouch looked moodily on. Lucius sat upwind of him and greeted him with a faint smile.   

Igor was ready to change the subject, it seemed. "You were not on time," he said, turning away from Rosier. His English had improved since Lucius had met him, but it still left a lot to be desired, and still came under an accent thick enough to slip in. "The Dark Lord–"  

"Was displeased, I'm sure," Lucius cut in. "But it _does_ look strange to be popping up like a mad gnome and dashing out of a room with no–"  

"– Is in a good mood enough that I think he will not care so much." Igor grinned. "I think he would even not have noticed, if Bellatrix had kept closed her mouth."

  Lucius smiled, though his jaw was clenched. "Well, what a stroke of luck. Still, I'll have to make my apologies – when he's quite finished with Severus." Hopefully the Dark Lord's good mood would survive the conversation. Severus could usually be counted upon to make himself agreeable to people who mattered, at least; with a Muggle for a father and no connections to speak of, he needed every last friend he could get. 

"Did you know, he was this morning asking me – Severus – whether the Xeirionoology position at Durmstrang would be coming open?" Igor puckered his lips around his pipe and let out a contemptuous stream of smoke. "This, although he has applied already at Hogwarts, and on the Dark Lord's orders. He is very bold." 

"Perhaps he expects Dumbledore will reject him," Lucius said, instead of asking what on earth Xeirionoology could be. There was no good reason to think Severus was assured the position. He had never been particularly good at hiding his inclinations, and Dumbledore had no love for the darker sides of magic. "Would your father hire a man like him, do you think?" 

"I think it unlikely – _most_ unlikely. He takes very seriously the quality of our professors and of our students. I think a person of such questionable background would create – how do you say – a controversy, yes." Igor smiled at him. "Draco's place is of course assured." 

"You're very good to keep offering, and I hope someday soon to accept. But Narcissa persists in being difficult. She'll take a little more working on, I'm afraid." Lucius knew she would see reason eventually. He couldn't fault her insistence upon tradition, but everything was about to change, after all – and Durmstrang, he was certain, would have much more to offer a young man than would Hogwarts. It _was_ run by barbarians, that was hard to deny ... but the boy would be well enough cultured by the time they sent him off, and would hold his own. 

Igor waved his hand, sending the yellow smoke spiraling away. "There is no need to hurry. He is – what – a year old?" 

"Fourteen months, thank you. And frightfully precocious, I must say – Narcissa's given him this toy wand, you see, and I told her he was far too young for it, but damned if she wasn't absolutely right. I doubt if there's a room in all the house he hasn't crawled through beating on everything within reach. One doesn't like to encourage a child over much, of course, but I defy anyone not to smile when he–" 

Lucius broke off at the sound of a door unlatching, and the rest of the room fell silent with him. Everyone stood as the Dark Lord emerged from the library, the slight furrow in his brow lending a dangerous cast to his eyes. He was clearly irritated, and might soon be pushed to anger if someone acted carelessly. 

A moment later Severus followed. He was pale and anxious, his gaze darting from the Dark Lord's back to the crowd scattered through the parlor. "My Lord," he said, strangely hoarse and almost too quiet to catch. "Please – I only ask–" 

"You have asked too many times already, and I've given you your answer. Be silent." The Dark Lord did not look at him. Lucius wondered what Severus thought he was doing – it was clear the Dark Lord didn't want to be pressed, and they _all_ knew what was like to happen once he decided he'd had enough. 

But Severus kept on in a remarkable display of twitchy recklessness. His hands were wringing at his robes. "But there isn't any need – the child, yes, of course, but the prophecy says nothing–" 

" _Be silent._ " The Dark Lord turned on him, so close to one of his rages that Lucius could practically feel the heat of it. "You surprise me," he continued, his voice soft and ominous. "I would not have expected _you_ , Severus, to be so blinded by desire. And to beg after such an unworthy object – it is _extremely_ unbecoming. You have your shortcomings, to be sure, but surely you needn't stoop so low. There are other women far more deserving of your attention." 

Severus made a strangled sound deep in his throat; someone snickered, and his face went a blotchy red. There was a long silence in which the two stared directly into each other's eyes, the Dark Lord cold and withering, Severus desperate and – afraid, Lucius thought. And then Severus turned his face to the floor so quickly he might have been slapped. "Yes, my Lord," he breathed, bending at the middle as though he were in pain. "Of course. I am – I am sorry."  

The Dark Lord gave a dismissive wave and turned to the parlor again with an impatient sniff. His raised his eyes after spending a moment in thought, and pinned them on Lucius. "You're late." 

Lucius pushed Severus' curious behavior to the back of his mind, and bowed. "My most humble apologies, my Lord – I was detained in a meeting of the Hogwarts board of governors, and given your interest in the institution I thought it unwise to offend–" 

"You should consider more carefully just whom you do not wish to offend," the Dark Lord said. It was undoubtedly a rebuke, but he seemed withdrawn and disengaged. 

"Yes, my Lord." By the time Lucius deemed it safe to come out of his bow, the Dark Lord had already forgotten him, staring down at the upholstery of a nearby chair. Lucius risked a glance at Severus, whose face was white and rigid. What could have him so tightly wound? It sounded as if he had been asking for the Potter boy's mother – which, seeing as how he had been the one to deliver the prophecy to the Dark Lord in the first place, seemed a fair enough price. The girl _was_ a Mudblood, of course; it was easy to see why the Dark Lord might be disgusted by such a request. On the other hand, Severus, with all his _shortcomings_ , wasn't about to win the attentions of any of those more deserving women without a bit of help.   

"I must consider," the Dark Lord said at length, turning to peer into the fire as though he were searching for something. "This child poses no immediate threat – no threat at all, and yet we must not take such a warning lightly ..." He spared them not a glance as he turned on his heel and made for the hallway. "I will call you again, soon. Be ready." And then he was lost in the shadows, as though he had Disapparated, although he hadn't made a sound.

  There was a wave of quiet muttering. Lucius refrained from joining in, but he completely understood; dragged away, again, from the business of the day to tend to what – to the empty whims of a man who hadn't yet decided what he needed. It wasn't the first time, and wouldn't be the last. But all progress came at a price, and the best thing to do, he had decided, was to keep smiling through, to be as helpful as possible even in the face of what were, at times, dire insults. There would be a reward at the end, when the Dark Lord had more with which to occupy himself than a room full of servants.   

"Well," he said, leaning against the back of the couch where Severus was sitting, his hand thrust into his hair, as a few of his fellows began lining up at the fireplace. "You've gone and chased him off after – ten minutes? Probably some sort of record."  

"I _am_ sorry," Severus muttered, staring with a strange, sour grimace at the mantle. "I didn't mean to keep him to myself. You must be disappointed; I know how well you like the taste of boot polish."  

Bellatrix cackled, and Lucius suppressed a frown. _Insolent._ "There can't have been much left, after your little interview. Were you _really_ asking him for that girl?"

Severus shot to his feet. His face, turned to the floor, was half obscured by his uncombed hair, but Lucius could see that it was turning a livid purple. "I'm going home," he muttered, stalking off into the hallway.

"Is she pretty, at least?" Lucius draped his arm around Severus' shoulders, matching him step for hurried step. "If you're going to dip into a Mudblood, she'd better–"

Severus shoved him in the ribs with a snarl, sending him stumbling against a large standing clock. "Get your hands off of me!" He drew his wand, seemed to think better of it, turned on his heel and half ran for the Floo.

Lucius was faster. The clock's chimes clattered and sang as he lunged after Severus, twisting his fingers into the back of his cloak and swinging him face-first against the wall. "Mind your manners," he growled. Severus was trembling under his hand – _good_ \- but was otherwise still, only clenching and unclenching his jaw. His eyes were closed.

Lucius glanced over his shoulder – almost everyone had gone, but Igor was seated on the arm of a chair with a twisted smirk and Bellatrix was looking decidedly unamused – and released Severus with a light shrug and a smile. Severus made an immediate dash for the Floo, drained utterly pale in his humiliation. A moment later he had vanished in a flare of green.

"How terrible it must be not to be able to laugh at oneself." Lucius straightened his robes, waved to his remaining companions, and scooped a handful of Floo powder out of the iron stand beside the hearth. "I'll give your best to Narcissa. Good evening." He threw down the powder, stepped into the flames and left, hard on Severus' heels but destined for, he was sure, a much better place. He couldn't imagine where such a man might live, and had no desire to do so.

He landed steady on his feet and strode off the level slate hearth into his own arrival parlor. There was a distressed squeak from the direction of the coat closet. He cast his cloak off with a smirk and flung it to one side – where it took on a decidedly familiar shape as Dobby appeared underneath and began his usual desperately acrobatic attempts to keep it from brushing the floor with a despairing little groan. Lucius made his journey through the house and up the stairs to the sound of fingers closing again and again in the closet door. He could almost always rely on the household help to lift his spirits, when necessary; by the time he came to the landing, he was practically whistling.   Narcissa intercepted him just before the entrance to his suite, hooking her fingers into the lapels of his robes and lifting herself onto her toes to press her lips against his jaw. He turned his face away with a cringe.   

"Oh – don't my dear," he said, taking her shoulders and pushing her gently back. "I've been sitting next to that cossack Karkaroff for hours, and I must fairly reek of – what is it, anyhow, that cossacks do?"  

"I'm sure _I_ don't know." She crossed her arms over her chest and took a playful step backwards.   

"I never meant to imply," he said, grinning. "It's the smell – I can hardly think. I believe it's to do with horses, in any case. How fares the young master?" He rested his hand on her hips and let himself make a fond appraisal of the stiff, rustling, deep blue fabric that clung so faithfully to her waist even as it retreated deferentially from that lovely, delicate angle where her collarbone met her shoulder.

"He sleeps. And if you wake him, I'll have Dobby's head under glass."  

"I wouldn't dare. Leave the little love to his rest, by all means." He swept past her into his rooms, heading immediately for the bath. Severus still clung to him like a fog, and that was nothing he wanted to carry though the house any longer than necessary. "I'll return directly, and then we can _quietly_ inspect how much you've allowed him to grow in my absence." 

He half expected her to follow, but he reached his bath alone. The large triptych window, etched to a white opacity with swirling seas and ships and spears (the conquest of Crete had held some significance for the Manor's original architect, for some reason Lucius had never understood) let in silver, almost wintry light from the dying, clouded day. Lucius left the chandelier dark. He wanted to relax, and still shadows were so much more soothing than the warm firelight on mirrors and marble.

He dropped his clothes in the dressing room. By the time he had emerged again into the bath, the tub was full and ghostly curls of steam were softening every shining surface. There was no foam, just the fleeting glimmer of litsea oil. He stepped in, lay back and let himself sink to the bottom of the great carved block of stone. The hot water bit at the Mark on his arm, still burning black and edged with red, but as he held his breath and counted away the seconds the pain dissolved, diluted, and finally left him entirely. 

It wasn't half a minute before he felt footsteps. They paused; he imagined Narcissa standing on the threshold, waiting to be acknowledged, and he smiled. He could hold his breath for longer than that. Then the room burst into light. She had never had any patience for gloom. Still he refused to move. Finally she padded up the step and sat on the tub's broad corner, throwing a shapeless half-shadow into the bright orange floating beneath his eyelids. Something prodded his chest. He seized it with his hand – her foot.

Well. _Impatient, are we?_

Lucius sat upright, drawing a deep breath and keeping a firm hold on her ankle as his hair streamed down over his shoulders, along either side of his face. Narcissa was seated, her skirts pulled up around her knees, her fingers tracing the meandering pattern in the stone. Lucius planted a kiss on her shin.

Her eyes found his left forearm straightaway. "You've been on more than one errand, today?"

"Yes – the board, and an impromptu meeting. A short one, happily." He released her and leaned forward to fold his arms on the edge of the tub, resting his chin over his wrists. "And perfectly unnecessary."

"Nothing alarming, then." She tucked her foot under herself; the water planted a slow black stain in her dress.

"No, nothing immediate. He has something he wants done, but he isn't sure what, and perhaps he'll simply do it himself, but we must be ready, of course, in case he decides he has something _else_ he would rather do – although he'd no doubt have to call another meeting, first. Bella says hello," he lied. She never made time for such pleasantries, busy as she was trying to show him up. "And Igor, of course. Did you know, they offer – er – Hieronoology at Durmstrang?"

Narcissa's brow furrowed slightly. "Priestly thought?"

"I haven't a clue. I expected you would know. In any case, they've quite a few options one couldn't hope for at Hogwarts."

"Hm." She reached down to slide her fingernails across his temple, through his hair.

"He _is_ a hideous sort of vandal," Lucius conceded, familiar enough with this conversation that he was perfectly capable of carrying it out on his own. "But when, in the ancient traditions of his mother country, he poisons his father's after-supper tea and becomes Headmaster, there really won't be any better connection for an ambitious young–"

"Draco is going to Hogwarts, Lucius." She sat back, looking down her nose at him. "I won't send him thousands of miles away to be raised by those people."

"We'll have raised him," he said. "And I hardly think it's any worse to be raised by wolves than it is to be taught by fools."

Narcissa arched an eyebrow at him. "Lucky, then, that his grandfather's on the board and knows a fool when he sees one–"

"His grandfather has very strange ideas about raising children," Lucius said, sitting up and stretching back against the other side of the tub. "Shall we pack the boy off to France the moment he turns three, then? And dear old grandfather's about one sharp shove away from going senile, if you ask me, and like to do much more damage than good."

"Shove him, then, for goodness' sake, and fill his chair yourself." 

"Men like that don't give anything away. Not even if they go stark raving – no, he'll cling to it until he dies, damn him. And men like that don't _die_ , either, not until they're about a hundred and eighty." If tradition hadn't dictated that the Manor pass to him at marriage, Lucius doubted he would have even that much. "No, I'm afraid Mr. Malfoy will only count for so much as a governor."

Narcissa leaned back against the wall, gazing through the changing glass. She was growing bored. "Then convince his colleagues. You _are_ allowed to draw from your own vault, aren't you?"

"Of course. But it isn't as simple as–"

"It is. Draco is going to Hogwarts. He's going to be in Slytherin."

"He's one year old, my dear."

"Fourteen months." She slid her legs over the side of the tub, preparing to depart. "I have no doubt it's within your abilities to ensure that he has the best experience possible."

"Of course it is," Lucius said, sinking back into the water up to his neck, watching Narcissa slip to her feet and stop in front of the mirror to pull out her wand and dry her skirt. "Wherever he should go – Durmstrang or Hogwarts," he added in a rush when her reflection raised an eyebrow at him. It was the largest concession on the matter he'd made yet, and he knew he hadn't quite lost, but still it vexed him. 

"Good." She began unlacing the back of her dress, and disappeared into his dressing room. Her footsteps passed into the bedroom without stopping, and his bedding made a stiff rustling sound. Lucius reached for the soap, having wasted enough time lying around and soaking.

\+ + +

**October 31, 1981.**

Two months later, seated in the same armchair in the same parlor of the same dusty old house, Lucius reflected that Lord Voldemort was one of the more fickle investments he had ever made. Sometimes his plans moved at lightning pace, racking up an embarrassment of gains with hardly any effort; sometimes his followers sat idle, only bickering, and there seemed to be nothing brewing at all. Sometimes Lucius was tempted to try to take it all in hand, because – unless he was very much mistaken as to what the end goal was, precisely – it was all being very badly managed. He, for instance, a well respected and much sought-after member of society, had obligations, social, charitable, financial; and should he fall short of them, people would certainly take notice. And yet he was required to risk falling very short indeed, waiting here while he ought to have been preparing for _the_ social function of the Fall. Stebbins' little Halloween to-do was all the more important now that Lucius was beginning to assert himself more with the Governors, and he couldn't help feeling that he would be a much, much more useful tool to the Dark Lord if he were out doing what he was meant to do.

But here he was; and the Dark Lord was shut away again, but with whom, no one knew. Everyone seemed to be accounted for, but the ceiling creaked under someone pacing in the drawing room above, and occasionally a muffled voice would drift down the stairwell. Most everyone had sunk into quiet conversation. Bellatrix sat alone on the hearth with an impatient sneer – she had already made it quite clear that she believed tonight was the night the child would die, and she seemed incapable of carrying on a mundane chat when the Dark Lord's future was so soon to be determined. Crouch was brooding similarly on an ottoman. Severus was quiet, too, but he simply looked bored. Whatever had been bothering him before, it had been resolved. There was nothing of the twitchy, hand-wringing beggar left in him.

Rookwood was in one of his more tolerable moods, pleasantly talkative without being quite as brash and eager to impress as he sometimes was. Lucius enjoyed discussing politics with him when he had the opportunity. So few of his other brethren paid any real attention to the inner workings of the Ministry – they were idealists, and far too prone to go off on tangents about what _ought_ to be. They could be exceedingly tiresome. The worst of the lot was Bellatrix, but Crouch had established himself as a very close second. The first time Lucius had tried to speak with him about his father, the conversation had quickly turned to poisoning. The boy had no subtlety at all.

"After Bagnold," Rookwood was saying, "I don't think anyone is properly situated to win a quick appointment. There are any number of contenders, of course, but there are too many with a good share of their own partisans in the Wizengamot – the whole thing's too well split-up. There'll be months of buying in and jumping ship and sniffing out the strongest candidate, and – well, it will be quite like it always is, I suppose."

"I have no great love for Bagnold," Lucius said, leaning his elbow on the arm of his chair, one ear in the conversation and the other waiting to hear who came down those stairs. "And I think her term, whatever it is, will end up a terrible waste of everyone's time, but it _is_ rather early to be predicting her successor. She hasn't been in office two years. It would be better, of course, to have someone a bit closer to a transition, given the Dark Lord's position and his imminent rise to power," here he gave a little nod to Bellatrix, who ignored him completely, "but transitions can be induced, and so long as the thing is done correctly and done quietly, I don't see why we shouldn't have a new Minister not too long after the Dark Lord has everything well in hand. Of course, it leaves us with the current crop of would-be successors, which is none too attractive."

Rookwood nodded eagerly. "If I had to put my money on anyone – if Bagnold were to go away tomorrow – it would have to be on Crouch. Which should go to show that we haven't made the necessary preparations. Before Bagnold is _induced_ to leave, as you say, there will have to be quite a lot of effort put into making sure we have a reasonably solid majority behind our favorite. Crouch, I think we can all agree, would be an utter disaster."

"What a thick, miserable brute that man is," Lucius muttered, drumming his fingers against the upholstery. "My wand has more give in it than he does. It would have to be outright war, it already _is_ outright war; he's too stupid to settle for anything less. I suppose that's what attracts people to him. We need–"

"So much rumination." Bellatrix was glaring at them. "All a waste of breath, as usual. There may not even _be_ a Minister. Why spend time trying to ply a bunch of petty politicians?"

Lucius laughed. "Unless you think the Dark Lord has come this far for the privilege of personally wrangling a massive bureaucracy, I rather think he'll need–"

"I think he will decide for himself whom to place in power, and no one will oppose his will." She gave him a waspish smile. "So you can stop wasting your time finding a tactful way to submit your own name for the position."

"What – Minister? Me? And be grey as a mule by forty?" Lucius stared at her, an astounded smile creeping up one side of his mouth. He hadn't realized Bellatrix thought him _quite_ so ... trifling. It was a delightful revelation. "I have no words. You're not usually so stupid, Bella – what's the trouble?"

"She lost her prey this week." Rodolphus, safe from Bellatrix's searing glare behind a newspaper, sounded rather tired. "To Longbottom and his crew. But I really think it's time she let it go," he continued, his voice sharpening. "Seeing as _she's_ not the one who almost lost an arm."

Having no desire to plant himself in the middle of someone else's marital squabbles, Lucius turned pointedly back to Rookwood. "What about Fudge?" he asked. "He's no one _really_ , I know, but he has the beginnings of popularity. He's just stupid enough, and from the conversations I've had with the man I expect he's sufficiently bribable to be a good friend."

"The trouble with Fudge ..." Rookwood paused, considering. "Well – he isn't anyone, as you've pointed out. Not really. But he's enough of someone that it's clear he may be in the pool someday, and with Crouch as popular as he is, Fudge is a dangerous bet to make. He would take a lot of grooming, a lot of – investment. That much work is hard to do in private. If Crouch or anyone in his camp caught wind of it, I don't think they'd take it kindly. Crouch _hates_ him, from what I can tell; and you know these people have terribly long memories. Anyone who's propped up Fudge can expect to be out in the cold if Crouch comes into power, one way or another."

"Which he will not," Bellatrix snapped, "because no one who has so abused the Dark Lord and his followers will be allowed to survive, never mind hold office. Not after today."

Severus lifted his chin away from his chest, coming halfway out of his slouch. He had been particularly sullen all evening, and Lucius hardly blamed him. It was becoming tedious, these calls to arms followed by a long, empty waiting. "Today, Bella? You must know something I haven't been told, because as far as I can tell, today will–"

"If you had any faith at all," she interrupted savagely, "you would _know_."

Severus shrugged and went back to staring at the fire.

Lucius, for his part, thought it must have been nice to be so _sure_ of things, the way Bellatrix always, always was. Life would be shorter, true, but so much more full of heat. He, however, was not going to count Lord Voldemort a sure victory until he had seen it. It was as Rookwood had said: publicly backing the wrong horse could leave one very much out of luck at the end of the race. Lucius preferred to bet quietly, generously and often.

The Dark Lord was on the threshold before Lucius heard anyone on the stair – and judging by the startled looks and hurried bows all around the room, everyone else had been taken just as much by surprise. He was smiling.

"Your services will not be required."

Lucius glanced at Bellatrix and was not disappointed – how he loved to see her looking stricken – but was soon distracted by the sound of shuffling on the stairs. Someone was descending. He longed to crane his neck and try to see, but the Dark Lord stood immobile in the doorway, weaving his wand lazily between his fingers, blocking any view of the shadowy hallway. Whoever it was was in a hurry: not five seconds after reaching the landing, there was a flash of green fire. The mysterious guest had gone.

"But tomorrow," the Dark Lord continued, his smile creeping further across his face with every moment. "Tomorrow, you should be prepared to come together. We will have much to celebrate."

"My Lord," Bellatrix breathed. "If this is to be the hour of your victory, there would be no greater honor than to–"

"I will go alone, Bellatrix. I am capable, I think, of dispatching an infant without your assistance."

_Hah_. A doubly happy occasion: the end of all this nonsense about prophecies, and Bellatrix disappointed into the bargain. And a day's delay suited Lucius perfectly – he would have time to make the necessary appearance at Stebbins'. Father was feeling rather too under the weather to go and represent himself, but that was all right. There were quite a few people Lucius was interested in seeing on his own.

There was little more that anyone could say. Once the Dark Lord had retreated, the room – silent and solemn, now, and tense with anticipation – began to clear. Severus left alone, looking grateful to be put at liberty again. Lucius heard Rosier, Rookwood and Avery discussing plans to begin their celebrations a bit early. There were a few he knew he would see tonight at Stebbins' home, but he didn't stop to speak with them. He had his own business to attend to. The Dark Lord had released him for the day, and wouldn't have him back again until tomorrow.

Rather than take the Floo, he Apparated home. His father would probably be occupying one of the parlors on the ground floor, lurking about unannounced and unexpected as he almost always did in the early afternoon on days when he was feeling particularly ill, and Lucius was not eager to see him. He arrived at the Manor's main gate, sent the iron bars winding open with a touch of his hand, and strode quickly up the wind-blown path and along one of the smaller, stone-lined walkways to wind around the conservatory and enter through the rear courtyard. What ridiculous acrobatics, for a man entering his own home. He _would_ shove the ailing old codger one day, just to save them all a bit of time.

His plans were thwarted, however. No sooner had he entered the courtyard than he caught sight of his father, seated on one of the benches just inside the iron-bordered windows that walled the conservatory. Their eyes met, and there was no walking by after that. Lucius opened the doors and marched in as though it had been his intention all along, taking a deep breath to brace himself against the baking air. He had never liked it very much, in here. He always felt as though every pane of glass were turning the sun onto him just so.

"Father." Lucius rested his hand on the back of the bench. The glossy black wood was almost sticky in the humidity. "You're looking very well. You must be feeling better." There was a lively color in his skin – or maybe it was only fever. Who could tell?

"I am not. Hornby was just by. It was very tiring." His eyes were fixed on two great crowns of a Bird of Paradise reaching out of the shade of the Ya-te-veo.

Lucius _tsked_. "I'm sorry to have missed him." Had Hornby been here still, he would at least have had a little conversation to look forward to.

"Hm." His father's fingers were crawling in place – not a good sign. The beginnings of serious nerve damage, perhaps. "He says all sorts of strange things about you. Some trash about the way you divide your time at the Ministry, which I refused to believe. Why you should be shaking hands with anyone but the best of Bagnold's friends, after all that went into seeing her appointed, I don't know – after all the hands I shook, and …" He trailed off, probably forgetting his words.

Lucius waited for a moment, the picture of patience. "Well," he said at last, with a smile. "If you had left me any hands to shake, I'd have been happy to help. But they're all quite beholden to you, you know, and I have no choice but to find my own–"

"We shared a name, last I checked," his father growled. "It's what's known as a _legacy_."

"Indeed? I hadn't realized. I'll be more than happy to pick it up for you, should the burden ever grow too heavy." What nerve the man had, claiming to have built his _legacy_ for anyone but himself, clutching it jealously even now, even at death's very door.

"You will, won't you. And have me underground at the first–"

"If you're going to be irrational, Father, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask the elves to keep you out of here," Lucius cut across him, casting a disapproving glance up to the glassy, sun-washed ceiling. "It's too close, I think. It's no good for your health. You'll do better somewhere darker, somewhere more indoors." And he left before his father could put forth any complaint. It was absolutely no use talking to him, and there were two people upstairs with rather more promise with whom Lucius preferred to spend his short leisure hours.

He found Narcissa almost where he had expected her. The rocking chair in the corner of her bedroom was facing the garden window and bathed with sun, as usual, but it was empty. She lay on her side in the middle of her bed, Draco sprawled out on his back beside her. She propped herself up on one elbow when he entered.

"Napping, are we?" He sat beside her, began tugging off his boots without an invitation, and drew his legs up onto the mattress.

"How else am I supposed to survive the night? You know how long these things drag on. If there's a single person worth speaking to, I'll–"

"I'm coming, too, you realize."

She sighed and lay her head on her pillow again, her brief flash of smile disappearing into the bedding. "Yes, at least you attract the most tiresome ones to yourself. Will Hornby be there? I can cling to his arm while you're currying favor. It was such a stroke of luck," she added thoughtfully, "when his wife died."

"It really was. I like him much better as a widower. He always used to be running off places at the drop of a hat."

"Mm. I could come over faint if you wanted an excuse to escape a little early." She rested her hand on Draco's chest and he gave his head a toss. 

Lucius reached over her to slip his finger into his son's hand. One of the ancient yews outside had grown too close to the house and was rattling its short, sharp leaves against the window pane with every gust of wind. "Don't be silly. It won't be so very bad. Stebbins always puts out an excellent spread."

"And invites guests with an average age of eighty-five."

"Well. If it's handsome young men you're looking for, it may not be quite the place. Cornelius will be there, though; I think it's probably about time we made another gift to Mrs. Fudge's charity."

Narcissa rolled onto her back, folding her hands over her stomach and arching a doubtful eyebrow at him. "The orphan education fund? Julia's been collecting on that for a year – for more than a year. Has anyone actually been educated, do you think?"

"I couldn't say – I don't know any orphans. But I don't care if she uses it to buy dragon horn." He fell back beside her, gazing up at the delicate, glistening silver chandelier as it spread out toward the corners of the room like a highly-polished vine. It had unfurled into a particularly lovely pattern this morning. "Fudge is worth throwing a little money at, though."

"Do you think so?" He could hear the skepticism, this time; he didn't have to look at her. "I can't remember the last Minister who came out of Accidents and Catastrophes."

"Perhaps we're due for one. He makes friends very well – I think he's a likely sort of man." Lucius sat up. "Now – I'm going to go see about robes. Are you wearing the Tyrian purple, do you think?"

She was, as it happened; and it accented the flush in her face wonderfully as they stood beneath the hovering ring of torches that illuminated Stebbins' rather medieval-looking hall. It was a place well-suited to a Halloween celebration – the bare, weathered stone walls glowed a dim, warm orange in the firelight, and the windows, great open gashes in the stone, let in the chilled autumn air in bursts that threw dark shadows over everything as they whipped across the thousands of lit candles. It was always either too cold or too hot. Lucius liked it. He wouldn't have wanted to _live_ there, but as a novelty it was pleasant enough.

They had run across Fudge rather early on – too early to conduct any real business – and found him in good spirits. Now he stood leaning a little on his wife as she chatted with Narcissa, close together in their circle gathered against the wind. Their wine glasses floated beside them, occasionally clinking against one another. Lucius took his in hand and drank. Fudge followed suit immediately. 

"I hear," Lucius said, "that there's been nearly a ten-fold reduction in latent curse-related injuries since your department instituted its public education campaign. I must say, I had my doubts – people who go about picking things up off the street _can't_ be an easy group to educate about anything – but I'm so pleased to be proven wrong. This chaos is becoming very tedious."

Fudge rolled back on his heels with a smug smile. His empty glass began wending its way through the crowd for a refill. "Well, that was the general feeling in the department as well, of course. Some people won't listen to reason, not at all – but I insisted that if we only made it simple enough, it could have a real effect, and it has. These sorts of clandestine attacks only really happen in areas with high traffic from both the wizarding and Muggle communities, and the perpetrators, of course, have shown a very strong pattern of targeting those places frequented by younger crowds. It should never have been difficult for anyone to properly direct education _or_ removal efforts. I'm very pleased with how things are progressing."

"Indeed. But it seems to me – my latest figures are from Monday's _Prophet_ , so you will have to tell me if I'm out of date – that actual violent crime, that is to say, attacks that occur face-to-face, have continued to rise." Lucius managed to look at least moderately concerned. "I realize those very rarely come under your purview, Cornelius, but it's very distressing news. I wonder if Law Enforcement is carrying its weight."

"Well," Fudge hemmed, glancing over his shoulder. "That's just Bartemius' approach, you know – there will be rather more incidents if you set a policy of actively engaging the enemy. And I can't say that he's entirely wrong. He's sent more than his share of these hooligans to Azkaban, he certainly has. But it is hard not to wonder whether a – er – less direct approach might help not to alarm the citizenry quite so often."

"It _would_ help if everyone would simply calm down a little," Narcissa said with a charmingly cold little curl of her lip. "And remember to keep these things in perspective."

Lucius smiled at her. "And to remember that there are countless other troubles that will need to be addressed whether or not the Aurors are leaping after every overzealous young man with a cloak. Your charitable efforts, Julia, have always been inspiring – our unfortunate youth, I know, have every reason to give you their unending gratitude."

"Oh!" Julia's smile was a bit nervous. "I do hope I've been of some use to them, of course – the orphans' education fund is well on its way to finding the support it requires to begin assisting those in need."

"I know it will be a resounding success, with you at the helm. It was the first donation we made, you know, in celebration of our son – on the day he was born." Lucius grinned. "But I've forgotten, haven't I – his first birthday's come and gone, and I haven't made an appropriate gift. How thoughtless of me."

"Careful, Lucius," Fudge chuckled. "The boy's twice as old, now–"

"Twice the gift, then," Narcissa said immediately. "I think it's a lovely idea, Lucius."

"It would be, if either of you had any head for numbers. He would have been some three hundred and sixty-five times older, I think you'll find, had I given in a timely fashion."

"Oh?" Fudge looked a little blank for a moment. "Oh – yes, quite." There was a pause. Lucius refrained from looking at Narcissa; he could tell she was impatiently waiting for the other shoe to drop. A moment later, Fudge blanched, and his eyes widened. " _Lucius_ –!"

Julia was clutching her hands together. "But we couldn't possibly–"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. You _must_. We'll have the deposit settled tomorrow, I simply can't believe I'd forgotten ..."

And after a few more minutes of tedious gushing and thanks, Narcissa took things in hand by asking whether Lucius would take her for a bit of a turn around the garden, as it was becoming rather oppressive inside, and they made their escape.

"Twice the gift," he said with a crooked smile, draping his arm around her waist as they crossed the cobbled path into the hilly, overgrown garden, all wild-looking rose bushes and gnarled oak trees. "You were ready to let him go with twice the gift, weren't you – I heard how you leapt in. For shame."

"It's my fault he's a fool, is it? He'd have been perfectly happy with it."

"Yes - and then when Draco turns two and we're giving him three times the original amount, I suppose you'd have volunteered to explain the figures to him …"

Narcissa sniffed. "Well. Perhaps Julia will buy herself a less hideous pair of shoes."

"One can only hope." Narcissa was shivering against him; he shifted his arm to wrap it around her shoulders.

"Are we quite finished?" she asked, stopping him beside a low-hanging branch covered with drooping moss. "We've done what we came to – there's no reason not to go home."

"One more time around the room." He smiled down at her. Her skin, white and cool and stark, leapt out against the black of the gardens and the deep, soft color of the gown; he nudged her carefully back against the branch and kissed her, fighting back a grin as she seized his shoulders, unstable in her heels on the uneven walk. He caught her by the waist, pressed flush against her and let out a low laugh when her teeth scraped against his lip and her hand curled into the back of his robes–

And then a twisting, raging pain erupted in his arm, as though someone had grabbed his wrist and _wrenched_ and shattered every bone up to his shoulder. It poured through him like poison, whipping down his spine and pulsing unbearably across his skull. His vision went grey and he collapsed with a handful off moss he had ripped away from the tree. He contorted blindly on the ground – he screamed.

Narcissa was above him somewhere, very far away. "Lucius!" Her voice was muffled, though, as if through a thick wall. " _Silencio!_ "

His next scream made no sound. He only had a moment to feel thankful, and then he fainted.

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**December 2, 1981.**

Lucius' study was, for the first time that he could remember, an utter mess of paper. Half the shelves were empty, having been stripped of all the letters and other records he was in the habit of keeping; the long, narrow room was littered with piles of parchment, some to be burnt, some openly kept, some hidden away in the cellars in case he should ever need them again. The process was very nearly finished now, but it had taken the better part of a month to sift through everything. There would be no evidence, if he could help it, of his connection with the fallen Dark Lord, whose Mark had disappeared the same night he had suffered his defeat. There was a pale, numb scar on Lucius' arm now, and that was all that remained. He sat behind his wide, heavy desk, his chair turned out to the side, and fed the latest sheaf of moderately incriminating documents to the fireplace. 

Even as the last of the grey, feathered ashes broke apart, his mind was not at ease. How could he know what to destroy and what to keep, when there were facts that still escaped him? He had always believed himself to be very well informed, particularly with respect to the Dark Lord's affairs – but the last month had been a strange one. Black, _Sirius_ Black, had been hauled in for murdering a herd of Muggles and betraying the Potters to their doom. And if the Dark Lord had persuaded Sirius Black to the cause, then Lucius was afraid there was likely to be a great deal that he did not know. He was erring on the side of caution, and destroying almost everything. He had stashed away a few letters that held valuable admissions from other parties, and a couple of curious artifacts that the Dark Lord had personally given to him and which might prove to be useful later, or which he did not yet fully understand. The rest, though, would be so much soot by the end of the day.

A gentle chime rang out from the walls and Lucius dropped the poker back into its stand. Someone had arrived by Floo. No one but family was permitted to enter that way. But Narcissa was here, he knew – he had only just left her in her rooms – and his father, hardly able to stand up straight without assistance, could not have gone out unnoticed. Their only other family was – but no, surely they wouldn't have been so profoundly stupid.

He ran out of his study, down the main staircase and beyond the drawing room into the winding, narrow corridor that stretched into the far wing of the house. The parlor at the end of the hall, flanked by coat closets and other doors he'd never seen any need to open, was bustling with shadows. Bellatrix stalked out first, a little ragged, sallow, and too thin. Rodolphus was next, similarly haggard, and then Rabastan and Crouch, both even more gaunt than usual. Lucius drew his wand, his breath stopping as though he'd been winded. He couldn't believe–

"What are you doing here?" he snapped, placing himself between his visitors and the main stair. "How did _he_ even get in?" He jabbed his finger at Crouch, whose haughty gaze seemed almost fevered. No, he had _not_ gone to such trouble to escape scrutiny – avoided trial, spun stories, emptied half the family vault into the right hands – all to let his mad sister-in-law, still very much a wanted fugitive, come waltzing in when the entire Auror department was swarming about looking for her.

"My sister's home will always be a place of refuge for me," Bellatrix said, sparing Lucius no more than a scornful glance before trying to push past him. "I can bring who I–"

"No, it isn't." He seized her arm and shoved her back. "Get out. Did you even stop to think what you would be bringing in with you, to your own sister's–"

"Nothing that doesn't already live here," Rodolphus said, sounding bored and giving him a pointed look. 

"No." Lucius slammed his hand against the wall, blocking their way. "If anyone discovers you've come, Narcissa–"

"How generous of you," Bellatrix broke in, speaking softly, more softly than he liked. "To be so concerned for her reputation. And it might do her some good, if you weren't so miserably short-sighted. You fear Aurors? The Aurors ought to be _thanking_ you – it's fools like you, fools who have abandoned him after no more than a month that make their treachery possible–"

"The Dark Lord has fallen." Just saying it made the skin crawl on the back of his neck. The mere thought that it might not be true was too chilling to consider – all the papers burnt, all the oaths taken denying any connection to him or his works would fall down on Lucius like so many death blows. "He's gone. If there was treachery, it's over."

"I have seen no body," she said, stepping up to him with an ominous calm, her wand at the ready though still aimed at the floor. "I have seen no proof that he is dead, or even captured. If they had it, if there _were_ a body, they would have produced it immediately. But they have not – they cannot." She smiled. "But they know where he is. They celebrate his demise as though his disappearance were certain, they go about their business as though there were no chance of a return, but there is no body. They have him somewhere, or they have chased him somewhere. They know where he is."

"You're talking nonsense." Lucius would have simply stunned her if he could have. Bellatrix unhinged was dangerous, but not impossible to subdue. With three men behind her, though, his chances were too poor. "If they have him, why not kill him? Why run the risk? He's dead, whether the Aurors have done it, or – or someone else." He still refused to believe it had been a _child_.

Crouch spoke up, his boyish voice so cold, so ill-fitted to his scrawny body that he was almost laughable. "Because his power is nothing they've ever approached. Even if they could kill him, they're too greedy, and too foolish to know how to gain what he has without his help." Lucius thought he detected a slight tremor in the boy's hands. 

"And because they know they do _not_ run a risk." Bellatrix was sneering at him now. "The Dark Lord's followers have fallen away from him like so much rotten flesh. He is almost friendless – the only faithful servants he has are without homes, are forced to rely on the kindness of those who ought to be tripping over themselves to lend assistance. And men like Crouch and Longbottom will have the better or us, and of him, and it will be on your head."

"If you think the Aurors have him," Lucius said, unrelenting, "then go ask _them_ where he is. Get out of my house."

Bellatrix grinned, baring her teeth. "We shall, as soon as we leave here. Longbottom and I have a long-standing appointment. I had expected you to come along, Lucius," she said, clearly lying. "But the choice is yours, and when he returns, you will have to answer–"

"To _him_. Not to you. Leave."

Bellatrix gave a sharp little wave. One by one the intruders stepped up to the hearth again, and disappeared in that cold, ragged green flame, until only Bellatrix remained. 

"When I see you again," she said, her fingers curled around the mantelpiece, "you had better hope I have a very good reason not to kill you."

Lucius did not respond. She left, and he sagged down onto the hearth, leaning his elbows on his knees. No one would know they had come; he was safe. They would be caught, and soon, and would have no further opportunity to cross his path. They had to be. But if they weren't ... It had been a month already, and the Ministry had proven itself quite incapable of capturing anyone who didn't kill thirteen people in the middle of a crowded street, anyone not handed to them on a platter.

_Then serve them up._

Lucius stood. He knew where they were going, or at least to whom. It was information that a great many people would pay to have, but it was his to give for free. Who, he wondered, would appreciate it most? When the answer struck him, it was perfect – the kind of satisfaction he hadn't felt in months, like the simple peace that came from laying eyes upon an exactly ordered table or a column of fitted numbers. He loved it when things simply _arranged_ themselves for him. 

He dragged a traveling cloak out of the closet, threw it over his shoulders and sunk his hand into the Floo powder with a smile. 

Moments later he was in the great atrium of the Ministry of Magic, attracting more than his usual share of looks, it was true, but no less confident for that. The more people who remembered he had come today, the better. Even now his name was not completely useless. No one would refuse him an appointment, not even the thick, miserable brute he had come to see. _Lucius Malfoy_ got him a pass to Level Two and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; _please tell him it regards his son_ got him an immediate invitation to Bartemius Crouch's personal antechamber.

He turned the corner to wait for the lift, and nearly ran headfirst into Severus. 

"Lucius," Severus said, with an infinitesimal nod, while Lucius was still deciding whether he wanted to acknowledge him at all. His face was blank, serious and drawn. He looked as though he had recently been very ill. 

Lucius would probably have looked the same, he supposed, had he taken care of himself as poorly as Severus had always seemed to. "Severus. What a pleasant surprise – shouldn't you be at Hogwarts?" Taking a legitimate job on the Dark Lord's orders had been an astounding stroke of luck, it seemed – but Severus wasn't a stupid boy, and Lucius was sure that he had helped himself along, too. Perhaps he had done so by turning in names. Lucius wouldn't fault him for that, though, as _his_ name hadn't been one of them, and that was what mattered. Knowing whom to sacrifice was an essential skill. "What brings you to London?"

"The same thing that brings you, I imagine." Severus' tone was flat and might have been offensive, but there was something deferential in his posture that had always put Lucius at ease. "One does one's best to help. I can usually escape the castle for an evening, if I try."

"Yes, of course. These are strange, trying times." He wondered if Severus had been summoned. He didn't believe for a moment that the man's name hadn't been brought up at some trial or other, and he knew Severus barely had two Knuts to rub together even if he had known exactly who to pay. He must have had a protector. It would have been very nice to know _who_.

One of the lifts rattled up from below, and opened. Lucius stepped forward to hold the grille, but Severus gave a brief shake of his head. "I'm going down," he said. "Thank you."

Lucius smiled. The grille shut with a creak and a clatter, and a long-carried weight began to drop away from his shoulders as the lift made its jolting ascent. When he stepped off at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, he was as composed as if he had come for routine business, to chat with some promising young person rather than to rid himself of an inconvenient sister-in-law and an undesirable contender for Minister. He had quite forgotten Severus by the time he reached the proper door; Bellatrix and Crouch, his two looming triumphs, were all that he could see.

\+ + +

Narcissa was asleep when he returned home.

Watching her as she stirred lightly on the side of the bed, tense and fitful, was a rare pleasure – he so rarely took the time, and she so rarely failed to wake when he arrived. Draco had made her sleep more soundly, he thought. The boy was curled against her, his mouth pressed crookedly to the hollow of her shoulder. The inexplicable stab of pride that swept through him every time Draco did _anything_ lingered a little longer than usual, now, and Lucius remained on the threshold to savor it while it lasted. The house was silent. Somewhere in the lower rooms there was a man whose uneven breathing no longer mattered, but Lucius had put him firmly out of his mind earlier today. He was beginning to order his life again, and his father could serve no purpose but to unravel it. Lucius would see to him soon.

This was what he had come home for. He sat on the edge of the mattress. Neither of them woke. When he leaned against the headboard and stretched his legs out in front of him, Narcissa's eyes opened – but after one long beat, one matched gaze, she closed them again. It was a strangely touching gesture of trust, and one he might not have appreciated any day but today. He sat with his thoughts as the darkness deepened, his fingers brushing every so often against his son's body, and listened to the perfection of the quiet that he had created, refusing to hear the dry scratching, scratching of that one spindly branch against the windowpane.


End file.
